Doors
by NaturallyBroken
Summary: Clint has shut himself away from the world, Natasha tries to find a way in. Ch.1 is Natasha's POV, Ch. 2 is Clint's. Music that influenced CH. 1 is Drake's "I'll take care of you", Ch. 2. The Fray's "Over My Head". Usual disclaimer, I own nothing but the fantasies in my head that came up with this story, the characters belong to someone else. Rated M for language.
1. Doors

Natasha knocked on the door to Clint's quarters for what felt like the thousandth time in the last few days. Sure she could've had Thor or Tony open it by force, but at the very least there would probably be an arrow already notched and waiting on the other side of the door. At the worst she would've have broken his trust, again, and she would rather die than do that.

She tried to keep her knock, steady, with no emotion to it. Maybe he would assume it was someone sent by Fury, and actually open the door. Five minutes later she realized it didn't matter, he wasn't opening up. Typical. It took so much for Clint to let anyone in just a little bit and now that fucking Loki had to go and screw that up. Part of her wanted to march down to the detention cell and kick him in his Asgardian jewels for doing that. Maybe she should piss off Bruce and throw him in the cell with Loki; let the big green rage monster bouncing him off the walls for a few hours...

A small smile spread across Natasha's face at that thought. That hadn't happened in days. Not since eating shwarma with the rest of the guys a few days ago. She sitting next to Clint, one leg outstretched, foot nestled comfortably in his lap. The good guys won, she was fed, she could relax, and everything was right in the world. She thought he looked tired, hell they all were, and maybe a little distant, but what was important is that she had her teammate, her protector, her lo... well there was really never time for that, but Clint/Agent Barton/Hawkeye was part of the team again.

She was wrong, of course. The moment they had all gone their separate ways Clint came back to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, to his new room, locked the door and hadn't come out. By the second day Fury had wanted to bust in, he had had enough with "Pretty Boy temper tantrums". Natasha had to stifle a laugh when she heard it. First Fury will never sound right saying words like pretty unless they were immediately followed by "fucking" or "stupid" or both. Secondly Clint would have never thought the words would apply to him. If he had been there he would've pointed out his scars, his calloused hands, his little crinkling of wrinkles around his eyes, caused by focusing on his targets all these years. He would point them out then point to Steve and say "Now he's pretty. Not that I'm into guys or anything."

Natasha then would've pretended to pout, "I'm not pretty?" After looking at her in what is clearly a few moments past casual glance Clint would respond, "He said pretty boy. You, Romanoff are most certainly not a boy."

"Well," she thought to herself, "you are certainly not a pretty boy. Pretty boys are like butterflies, all bright and look-at-me but fragile like tissue paper. You are Hawk. Strong, powerful, piercing, mysterious, and ..." Her thoughts are interrupted by someone walking down the hall. Steve approaches, stops momentarily, glancing from Natasha's face to her knuckles still pounding a steady rhythm on the door. He looks down at the floor, shakes his head, and then continues down the hallway.

"And apparently fragile as well," Natasha finishes her thought.

Fifteen minutes later, knuckles sore and red on both hands despite switching back and forth, Natasha is still on one side of the door knocking; Clint is still on the other. "Maybe he's asleep" she thinks as she starts pounding on the door with her fist. After a few dozen pounds she starts kicking at the door, and then hurling her body at it. Once, twice, then a small sob escapes her throat and stops her in her tracks.

She's losing control. "I must not lose control. For him I must not lose control," she repeats to herself over and over again in her head. A mantra, a prayer, she must not let him down. After all they have gone through she couldn't let him down. "He needs me ...well he needs anyone but me," she thought. But all there was was Fury and the team and they didn't know him like she did. They hadn't been in Budapest... "I'm all he's got."

She knocked a few more times, much more gently, fading as her resolve was, that the team, that she would ever have him back. The last knock is her forehead gently thudding against the door, her hands on either side of her head, her fingers gently touching the cold hard surface as she wishes she could touch him.

Turning away she thought "Don't shut me out forever..." the last word came out not as a thought but a strangled whisper, "Clint."

Lost in her head and turned away she never heard the small snick of the lock and the gentle change in air as the door opened a crack. But she did hear a whisper, much like her own, but deeper. "Natasha."


	2. Walls

Clint had been, to all appearances, calm when he first got back to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. When he had talked to Fury about staying there to "take a break from the media circus and refocus," Fury agreed immediately. Maybe Fury already knew the truth, maybe they all did.

Clint was so sure he was hiding it all from them as he nonchalantly approached the front desk to have a new access card made and find out where his room was to be located. He even joked with the photographer before getting his picture taken, although it did seem that all his jokes were falling flat. Then he saw photo on his access card. Gone was his piercing stare replaced by hollow, haunted eyes. Was that how everyone saw him? Hollow, haunted, a shadow of the man he was just a short time ago. He immediately dismissed the thought; they probably just thought he was tired. He was always good at masking his feelings why should that stop now.

But now with each step toward his room, his new sanctuary, the exterior facade began to crumble. Hollow brick by brick falling apart under the pressure of trying to keep up the rouse that everything was fine, the battle was over and the good guys won; accept the accolades and then back to the real world until it's time to be called again into service. By the time he reached the hallway of his quarters he was almost running at full tilt. His hands so shaky it took several tries to get the access card to work and then only after testing the lock on the door several times did he allow his legs to finally give way and his body to drop to the floor.

Exhaustion kicked in and he fell asleep right there. But it was a restless sleep lasting less than an hour, but long enough for the nightmares to start again. He woke with a scream frantically scrambling for his bow and the quiver of arrows, only to succeed in kicking the bow to one end of the room, scattering the arrows to the other.

Arrows and bow collected, he slides back down on the floor resting his back against the door. He kicks the duffle he had brought away from him with disgust. After all he had been through had he become this fucking fragile? No, he was just tired, just needed to focus, to think, and slowly put his mind back together. He laid his bow to one side of him, the quiver to other, stretched his legs out, dropped his hands in lap, found a spot on the wall, an imperfection in the plaster, and just stared.

Clint is startled out of his meditation, not sleep because his eyes never closed, by a knock on the door. "Phil?" he thought. It did sound very much like Phil's polite but insistent knock, but then he remembered Agent Coulson wouldn't be knocking on anyone's door ever again. He blamed himself for that as he was sure the rest of the team still did. Then who was this new minion and why were they disturbing him? It was, he looked up at the digital clock beside the bed, 2am for Christ sake. Or was it 2pm he could never remember if the dot beside the number it meant a.m. or p.m. Didn't matter, he wanted to be left alone. The knocking continued. From the clock he could see it had been going on for 15 minutes. It was giving him a headache and one more headache he didn't need.

"Go the fuck away," he growled. "Tell Fury I said I want to be left alone. When I'm ready to be part of society again, I'll let him know." He got up to accentuate his point by kicking the door but instead had to quickly hobble to the bed because his deadened legs could barely hold him up. Just how long had he zoned out?

Once feeling returned to his legs, Clint gathered up his quiver and bow and maneuvered himself into a better position on the bed, sitting up so that he wouldn't be tempted to fall asleep. A couple minutes later the knocking outside ceased. "I guess they finally got a fucking clue," he thought. He began his vigil again, this time using the peep hole in the door as his focus. Not that he could see a thing through it really at this distance, but it comforted him that he could lie to himself and believe he could, if the danger was great enough.

Time passed, the knocking came again, softer this time. Maybe it was… her. He missed nothing outside of these walls but her. But how could he even believe he had the right to see her right now, to look her in the eye knowing how horribly he failed her. Yes, she had brought him back but she shouldn't have had to do it in the first place.

"Whatever we could've had is all pissed away now," he thought. "How could she begin to trust me now after this? She must think of me as some weak-minded fuck. Even Banner has a better control on the beast inside of him than I do of my own thoughts. He… he knew I was weak, that's why he targeted me. I made her think I was so strong, when all the while I was nothing."

He continued to stare at the peep hole while the knocking continued. He's eyes began to water from all the intense staring and focus, no other reason.

Out of the corner of his eye could tell the walls were starting to close in. Not much, maybe only an inch or so, but the room was definitely smaller. No one else would've been able to see it but he was Hawkeye, he could spot a target hundreds of yards away. Certainly he could tell if the walls in a room he had been in for hours, days, weeks, he wasn't sure anymore, had moved.

Maybe he was just going crazy. Being alone in a windowless room has got to do that to you eventually, make you see whatever it wants you too. That bastard had made him see whatever he wanted him too as well, and he followed along like some love-sick cheerleader.

Loki. He had only begun to be less apprehensive about even thinking his name. He still couldn't bring himself to consciously say it aloud, as if it would invoke him into this very space, letting him once again rob him of his will, his mind.

He drifted off to sleep. He who could stay up for days on a mission couldn't seem to keep sleep at bay, and with sleep came the nightmares, and the screams. He needed something to keep him awake, coffee, pills, anything, but those were outside the room, outside these four walls that were protection. Whether they were protecting him or protecting others he wasn't sure anymore.

It had been three days since he retreated into own world. Had it really been three days? He wasn't sure; time seemed to be getting away from him. He measured time by the knocking on the door, assuming Fury would only spare one minion a day with the meaningless task. He didn't dare to turn on his phone to see what day it was, didn't want to contend with the deluge of voice mails and texts he was sure to have had. He let out a single mirthless chuckle. No one would be trying to contact him. If there wasn't a mission, no one needed Hawkeye. Although he wasn't totally sure they would even contact if there was a mission. Sure they were all pals after defeating Loki and that alien horde from hell but he could see they were still giving him the sidelong glance when they thought he wasn't looking. They were all still waiting for the glowing eyes to reappear or just any indication that once again he was someone's meat puppet.

Fucking Loki. Clint had long ago figured him and God was never going to be friends. But then this minor god, demon, alien piece-of-shit goes and scrambles his brains, takes away his will, makes so he can't even trust himself. And he's on the inside screaming for someone to save him and where was God then? Not saving his ass that's for sure.

He notched an arrow into his bow, pulling it back, aiming at the door. He figured that if he let it go it would probably go straight through the head of the annoying little minion tapping a slow death march on his door. But he couldn't do that, Fury would have the door forcibly removed and have his ass hauled out and thrown into a cell faster than you could say one-eyed jackass. He chuckled quietly to himself at the thought, and then regained his focus and the tension on the bow. Something felt good about this, it was such a part of him he didn't have to think and thinking was the last thing he wanted to do right now. So he held the position until his arms began to ache and then burn and finally when a tremor started in his fingers he relaxed his position and placed the bow in his lap just in case he changed his mind.

A change in the knocking brought his attention back to the door. It wasn't a knocking so much anymore as it was a pounding, erratic pounding at that. Had the little minion finally lost their mind? Then there was a series of loud thuds, as if someone was throwing their whole body against the door. "Fury must be pissed," he thought. The pounding stopped and Clint quietly crossed the room to look through the peep hole to see what he was up against in case they were considering more drastic measures. At first he couldn't see anything, just the hallway but he looked down slightly and then he saw it, her hair; it had to be hers, the color, no one had a color quite so beautiful.

He leaned his head against the door. "It can't be her," he thought. "Why would she come here for me?"

He looked through the peep hole again and the hair was gone. A panic rose up within him. He felt like he was drowning and the only lifeline, he hoped, was outside that door.

It took all his concentration to still his shaking hands enough to unlock the door. He had only opened the door a small crack when he caught his first complete glimpse of her. Even though it was just the back of her, it was enough to stop him in his tracks.

Her. He still believed he didn't have the right to even think her name after all he had done under Loki's influence, all her secrets, all her trust in him, betrayed.

He just stared at her, her shoulders slumped, her head down. His heart ached to just reach, to step out of his self-imposed prison, and hold her, comfort her. But he was the cause of her sorrow, how could he even begin to be the solution.

Then he heard it and his heart broke. One word, one word from her precious lips, one word so underserving to be uttered, one word, tinged with hurt and sorrow, one word, his name, Clint.

He tried to go to her but his brain and body couldn't coordinate and he was rooted to the spot. His brain was in a loop of "I'm sorrys" and hands that wanted to reach out only uselessly opened and closed.

He tried to reach her with his voice but his throat was dry, his tongue thick in his mouth. The first two words, I'm sorry, were just a movement of his lips. The next word, propelled through hurt, guilt, and loneliness, was but a whisper but carried with it the one spark of hope he had left that he could ever be put back together again.

One word, carried beyond the walls of his prison, one word, he didn't have the right to say, one word, her name, Natasha.


	3. Light

_Clint has opened the door but will he let Natasha in? I think this is the conclusion but then I could be wrong. I thought there was only going to be the one chapter in the beginning. It is funny how often characters hijack the story you are trying to tell. Songs that inspired this chapter are _Let Me In_ by R.E.M. and _Kryptonite_ by 3 Doors Down_

"Natasha."

Was she hearing things? Could it be he opened the door? She turned and saw the door open a crack, she couldn't see him through such a small, dark opening but she knew he was there. She could feel the tears start to brim in her eyes, maybe she hadn't lost him. She started towards the door; she couldn't wait to see him, to touch him, to

"Stop. Don't come closer. I just can't..."

His words hit her like a blow to the stomach. Rejected again. Let her guard down for a moment and this is what happens. Shielding her emotions again under the guise of Black Widow, she stopped, squared her shoulders and become icily official. "Agent Barton, I was just checking on your welfare. But now that it seems you are okay, I'll be leaving. If you need anything I am sure Fury or some other S.H.I.E.L.D. agent will be able to assist you."

No. no. no. Clint thought. That's not what he meant. And crap she had going all Black Widow on him again. Not that he didn't find her Black Widow side intriguing, even sexy; watching Black Widow let loose in a fight it was like watching a goddess at play, if that goddess was Kali, terrifying and beautiful all at the same time. But right now he needed Natasha, who understood what it was like to be confused, to not trust, to hurt. Only she could guide him back out of the darkness because he couldn't seem to do it himself.

"Stop, please Nat. I didn't mean it that way. I want you here, I just don't… I just don't think I deserve you to be here."

"Shouldn't I be the one to decide whether or not you are deserving of my attention? I am concerned about you whether you like it or not Barton. I am concerned that you haven't left your room in three days. Have you even eaten? Let me take you to get something to eat, something to drink, maybe lots to drink. Then we put this whole Loki thing in the past."

"I can't leave."

"Of course you can…"

"Nat, I can't. You don't know how much it took to just open this door. If you weren't on the other side I think, no, I know I wouldn't have opened it."

"Well if you can't leave," Natasha said walking towards the partially opened door, putting her face close to the gap as possible, hoping to capture just a glimpse of her wounded bird. "If you can't come out," she continued "Then let me in."

They stood there unmoving, her and him on either sides of a door. All was quiet except for their breathing. His was shallow and ragged, as if he had been running away from something for hours, maybe days. Her breath came in short gasps when she remembered that she was holding her breath and needed to breathe. It was a standoff not much different from the ones they had experienced in the field because one wrong move and someone very definitely was going to get hurt.

Natasha takes a startled step back when the door moves. Clint has opened it wide enough for her to come in but has already turned, walked away, and sat on the bed, from the sound of it. She can't see more than a foot or two into the room and that is only because of the hallway light filtering in.

"Clint where is the light switch?"

"Don't turn it on Natasha."

"I'm not a hawk, little bird, I can't see you; I can't see much of anything." Clint reluctantly turns on the lamp on the nightstand and motions Natasha to sit on the bed beside him. He turns his head away from her toward the wall. She reaches out cupping his chin in her hand turning it toward her. He is resistant at first but knows now that he's let her in, he has to let her all the way in. Natasha gasps the moment she sees his face, the dark circles, the eyes so haunted and full of pain, she wants to cry for him but she knows it won't help.

"This won't do Clint."

"What, I'm not handsome enough to take out anymore," the chuckle Clint lets out feels dangerously close to turning into a cry.

Natasha touches Clint's right temple and then his heart. "Handsome is here, and here, the rest, window dressing. But the eyes, there is too much hurt in those eyes, Clint Barton. Where has the fire gone, the intensity, the power?"

Clint turns away from her again. "Where do you think it's gone? That bastard took it all away; just reached out his little god hand and fucking poofed it away. You all gave a little bit back to me for the battle but that's all pissed away now." He turns back to her, putting his face within inches of hers. He wants her to have no doubts about what she sees, about what he believes everyone sees, "Look, I'm broken Nat. Can't you see that? I'm broken and…"

Natasha puts her fingers to his lips shushing him. "We are all broken."

They sit in silence, Clint staring ahead at one of the walls, Natasha, everywhere but at Clint. She doesn't want him to see how much his hurting is hurting her. It'll make things just that much worse.

Clint is the first to break the silence, dropping his head into his hands. "God, it's not like I haven't been tortured before Nat. I've been captured for what two, three, four days. Tortured until death would've been a relief, but I got over them. I was ready for the next mission as soon as I was debriefed. And now… and now I'm hiding in my room like a frightened child."

"You were trained for torture situations. None of us were trained for Loki. It could've have easily been any one of us. But the important thing is that you broke free. You broke free of the control of a god."

Clint lightly touches the bruises on his face, "Only because of you."

Natasha brushes off the comment "I was just a focus. You would've done it on your own soon enough, but you know me, I'm impatient." Clint takes her hand and kisses it.

"And thank goodness for that," he places her hand back at her side but manages to put his hand down where one of his fingers lays over hers. They lapse into silence again.

"I'm truly sorry I told him your secrets. That's what hurts me the most, that he made me betra..."

"You did not betray me Clint. Betrayal is done voluntarily. Nothing you did for Loki was voluntary. Anyway I'm kind of glad that part happened."

"How, how could you?"

"He tried to use you against me, he tried to use my secrets to crush me, he called me a," She made a disgusted face. "A 'mewling quim', to belittle and dismiss me. But none of it worked, instead it made me stronger."

"What's a quim?"

"I looked it up. You will not be using that word ever."

They lapse into silence again.

"Mewling quim," Clint muses quietly to himself, although not quietly enough to avoid Natasha's elbow to the side of his ribs. Clint laughs as he falls back on the bed. It's the first honest laugh he had in a while. "Sorry, Nat you know I just had to say it."

"Still love playing with fire, don't you Barton?"

"Nah, I just stick to fiery redheads now."

Natasha lies down beside him; turning onto her side toward him so that she can draw lazy circles on his chest. "Is that so now?"

"Yep." Clint takes a deep, relaxing breath and closes his eyes. Natasha continues to draw patterns over the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Clint falls asleep and Natasha is content to lie there next to him and listen to his gentle snoring. Suddenly every muscle in his body tenses up. Natasha strokes his face "Let it go, little bird, it's just a dream." She continues stroking his face until she feels all his muscles relax again.

Natasha must have drifted off because she is startled awake by a knock at the door. By the time she wonders why someone is knocking on an opened door and turns around to see who it is, Clint is already standing with an arrow notched and ready.

"Whoa, hold it a minute Birdman, I come in peace." It was Stark. "We have a mission and currently my job on the team is to play errand boy. Me? Errand boy? I wonder which degree I'm using for this one, oh right, none. Fury sent me to retrieve the very lovely Agent Romanoff and spirit her away to the war room. Not you Birdman, Fury says this little hideaway stunt has you off team until you have your head examined."

Natasha didn't want to leave, but duty called. She looked at Clint, who still had his bow at the ready. He was holding it so tight his arms are starting to shake.

"Why the fuck does he think I need to see a shrink."

"Uh," Tony takes a cautious step to the right; Clint adjusts his aim to follow him. "Maybe it's because you have a really dangerous weapon pointed at a fellow team mate. Just saying."

Natasha touches Clint's arm "I know he's annoying but it would not be good to shoot him."

Clint lowers his bow and mumbles an apologetic "You startled me" before sitting arrow and bow onto the bed.

"No worries, I'll just remember not to enter unless asked, no matter how much the door's open."

Clint and Natasha come to the same conclusion, "You won't remember," they say at the same time. They both can't help but laugh. Natasha looks at Clint, he seems better, seems more "him" but she's not sure.

"Are we okay?"

"No completely, but I will be. Go. Take metal man with you and go save the world. I think I'll go see if this place has a cafeteria, or at least a vending machine."

Natasha give Clint a short nod then turns to find Tony is already out of the room and headed down the hall. She moves quickly to catch up. A moment later she hears a door slam. She stops, heart sinking. She hears footsteps behind her and turns in time to see Hawkeye, without bow, without his quiver, walking the opposite direction before turning down another hallway.

With a smile on her lips, Natasha turns and runs to catch up with Tony.


End file.
